Creepypasta #1032: Jenny Martin
When I was younger, about eight, I think, Jenny Martin from down the road would come babysit me.
For the most part, Jenny was a really great babysitter. It was during the summer, when my parents had to work, so she and I would spend the whole day together. From memory, she was really tall, but that could be because everyone is tall when you’re eight. She had brown hair, brown eyes and freckles. I think she was fifteen or sixteen. Jenny always loved doing the things I loved doing. She would play Barbies with me, and finger paint and give me a cookie at lunch. Sometimes we’d walk to the park and have a picnic lunch. She was really great.
I think my parents would come home at 4:30, because she always left, just before dinner. And my mom and dad would ask how my day was, and I would hop around and tell them all the fun I’ve had. Those summer days were great. But then, school started. My parents wanted the occasional date night, sometimes worked longer hours, etc. So Jenny would come over after school, and stay really late.
The first few nights were fine. We had things like chicken nuggets or Mac ’n’ Cheese, or hot dogs for dinner. One night, that I remember really clearly though, we had chicken breast. My mom had left a recipe and all the spices on the counter, but I remember Jenny didn’t touch a single one. And when dinner was served, sitting beside some raw veggies, was an equally raw piece of chicken. I remember being really confused and pointed out to Jenny that I didn’t think it was cooked right. And she said,
“Raw is a delicacy. Eat up.” I didn’t know what delicacy meant, but it sounded fancy, and I trusted her, so I ate the meat. Jenny did too; she tore into it like it a starving dog, and blood dripped off her fingers, and fat smeared her mouth. She licked her lips and sucked her fingers before cleaning up.
Since I was eight years old, I naturally had a bedtime, which my mom tells me was 7:30. So at 7:25, Jenny would help me brush my teeth and get into my PJs and read me a bedtime story, before tucking me in.
I always fell asleep rather quickly; I think most little kids do. And since I didn’t have a clock in my room, I have no idea how long it was before I woke up to strange sounds coming from the downstairs. If I had been any older I would have investigated. But my eight-year-old self would hunker under the blankets and squeeze her eyes shut, trying desperately to ignore the faint gurgling and scratching coming from the living room.
The next morning, I’d tell my parents there were funny sounds from downstairs and they told me Jenny heard them too. Apparently, the water heater needed a new pipe or something. I don’t remember exactly the story Jenny told them, but I bought it.
I’m pretty sure I was an accident. Now that I’m older, I’ve heard stories of how neither of my parents wanted kids, and a drunk Uncle Finn told me that I was conceived in the bushes of a Van Halen concert. My parents were pretty good parents - are pretty good parents, but even as a kid, I could tell they didn’t like having me tag along. So the nights with Jenny slowly became more frequent as they trusted her more and more.
About a month after the water heater story, I decided to see if it really was the water heater. Like usual, I brushed my teeth, changed, read a story and went to bed. And like usual, I woke up who-knows-how-much later to weird noises. I grabbed the flashlight I had previously stashed under my pillow (I would need it for the basement) and slowly crept from my bed. I creaked open my bedroom door, and made my way towards the sounds. I remember being confused, because the gurgling seemed to be coming from the living room – where Jenny was, and not the basement which was in a different direction. I reasoned the sounds must be coming from a vent or something.
I turned off the flashlight because I didn’t want Jenny to catch me snooping around, and besides, the TV light was plenty to see by. The noises were really loud in the living room. I slowly peeked my head around the corner of the door way. Jenny sat on the couch, with her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees and her hair falling over her downward-tilted face. She wasn’t even facing the TV. She was facing me.